


Wicked Game

by Listen_Chuckles



Category: Shameless (US), gallavich - Fandom
Genre: Domestic, Gallavich Gift Exchange, M/M, Talented!Mickey, WeMostlyJustFuck, rated for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 21:46:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Listen_Chuckles/pseuds/Listen_Chuckles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey used to play guitar. When he's in a room on his own with one, he can't help himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wicked Game

**Author's Note:**

> This was one of two one shots I wrote for wemostlyjustfuck on tumblr for Gift Exchange.

It was rare Mickey got chance to do this. It was rare he had the attention span recently but once in a blue moon the occasion took him; he'd go and dig it out from the depths of the junk, sit on the edge of his bed and immerse himself in the feeling.

There was a time when he was young and foolish, when he wanted to taking up guitar playing full time, join a band or become a solo artist, for about a year he pursued it, learned his way around a fretboard, he practised everyday, it became a ritual. He'd learn songs, pick them out by ear because; 'fuck reading music,' committing them to memory and playing them over and over until he could play them back - in full - with ease. He'd never actually lost interest in the art. He still listened to his favourite musicians and longed to do what they did in his own little way, bound in constant awe by their talent wishing he could do the same but knowing he never would. 

The only person who even knew about his talent was Mandy, she was the only person decent enough to let him have his moment. She would sit on the floor and watch him play for as long as he would, enthralled, even singing along when she knew the words, oh yeah, Mickey could sing too, probably not very well nowadays since he started smoking so much but he still had a decent voice. It was mid range but still had a deeper quality to it, perfect for letting hit both ends of the scale, he could shift from high to low effortlessly, he liked his voice. He liked the way that, even though he'd only ever done cover songs, he had never tried to imitate the voices he loved, it was always his own voice that shone through. 

It had been over two years since Mickey had played properly so finding himself alone in the company of a guitar; it was hard to resist. He chewed his lip nervously, making sure Ian hadn't come in and he hadn't noticed before perching on the arm of the chair one leg on the floor for balance and the other resting on it's knee becoming a rest for the guitar as he held it – with a certain reverence. He plucked randomly at the strings for a while familiarising himself with the sound, and the played around on the fret board, the tattoos on his knuckles contradicting the person he became when he did this. He was glad his fingers remembered what to do, his head seemed not to, he couldn't consciously recall how to play all he could do was listen, and let his fingers make their next move. 

He struck a familiar sound, one of the songs he used to play coming back to him, he cleared his throat. His fingers stumbled a little on the first few chords tripping over each other to get to where they needed to be in time, knotting together almost, the tips already feeling bruised from the constant pressure but he persisted anyway, trying again and again until he finally got the intro right, head bowed and sheer concentration on his face chewing his lip raw. He played the song through, fingers still losing their footing slightly on the transitions, played it again, and again, and breathed when he finally had it right shifting position slightly and stretching his back and neck, rolling his head and shoulders, stiff from being hunched over.

He started to play again, stopping briefly before he reached the verse contemplating whether or not he should sing.

“Fuck it.” he carried on and started to sing softly, letting the guitar ring out.

“World was on fire and no one could save me but you,” his voice low, almost croaking,

“strange what desire will make foolish people do” he continued.

Mickey got lost. Drowning in sound and feeling, something his life rarely permitted, he was pretty sure anyone who could see him now would be able to see his soul, he'd always been a quiet fan of this song but now, the song had more meaning than he could have ever imagined. It left him raw and a little too exposed, a feeling he never liked as much as he'd changed in recent years, he would never like that feeling. Every so often he would pause, his fingers faltering, his voice cracking, but he carried on, catharsis. So wrapped up in the song and his back to the door he never noticed Ian stood in the doorway. 

The tall redhead leant against the frame in watched, in somewhat of a trance, shocked on so many levels; Mickey could play guitar, Mickey could sing, Mickey... All Ian could do was watch: transfixed, amazed, awed. This was almost a different Mickey to the one he knew. He knew he had it somewhere deep down, but he'd never seen it, no one had.

“What a wicked game to play, to make me feel this way,” Mickeys voice was cracking slightly, as though he was feeling it more than he should be, more than he wanted to, but there was nothing Ian could do about it. His legs had rooted into the ground for the moment because the moment he moved, Mickey would stop and he didn't want him to stop. Ian wanted to see this through, even though he could feel a ball growing in his throat, even though he was battling the urge to go and hug Mickey knowing he'd be swatted like a fly. He waited through the last chorus,

“No I don't wanna fall in love, with you.” He waited until the last chord on the guitar had faded to silence. Watched as Mickey put the guitar down gently and turned round, he looked stricken when he saw Ian, like a child who'd just been caught with a stolen cookie, and then he morphed instantly into Mickey again.

“The fuck are you lookin' at?” He asked nonchalantly making his way into the kitchen grabbing a beer only to throw himself on the sofa.

Ian could move finally and hopped over the back of the chair, sitting down next to the older man.

“I didn't know you could play?” It was a question, although he didn't know how Mickey was supposed to answer it. 

Mickey shrugged.


End file.
